Page 7 of Play Dirty

As the newer girl, she was even further than me.

More suitcase scraping drifted in from the hallway; the noise so foreign to the house it was almost offensive. Up here, everything settled into its own kind of quiet. Pipes ticking. Water, rushing through plumbing far beneath your feet. A door creaked open — her door — as I leaned back against the headboard, just listening. She hadn’t moved for a good half minute now. Which meant she was just standing there, taking it in.

I could picture it all without trying. The room was a mirror image of mine; smaller, colder. A radiator that worked only when it felt like it. A century-old window that held cold like a grudge. She’d probably be evaluating her life’s choices right about now. Anyone in her position would.

The scraping sound began again, and then I heard other noises. Fabric shifting. The opening of drawers. I stared at the ceiling for a minute or two, letting her get settled in. Then I swung my legs over the side of the bed, set down my tablet, and finally stood up.

I crossed the room in a few quiet steps, the floor shifting under my weight. There was barely any creaking, though. You learned where to step after a few days here.

“Hey…”

She was already standing in my doorway. Even before I could go out to meet her.

“Is your radiator—”

“Made during the First World War?”

Her gaze darted to the heating system tucked beneath my window. Just like hers, the metal fins were painted over so many times, the edges were rounded.

“Mine’s not working,” she sighed.

“Oh it is,” I delivered the bad news. “It’s just… awful.”

Haven exhaled, slowly. She was prettier than I expected; long, dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that kept it out of her way. Her eyes were blue and sharp, the irises ringed darker at the edges like someone had colored them in a coloring book. Yet as striking as they were, those eyes felt like they were one step ahead of you. Like they were already assessing. Measuring. Deciding.

“I’m Sebastian,” I told her.

“The new goalie. I know.”

She emphasized the word new. I stood there trying to decide if it meant anything.

“Haven Maxwell.”

She extended her hand. After a moment, I shook it.

“So… we’re roommates.”

“Floor mates,” she quickly corrected me.

I reached out and thumped my fist against the sharply slanted ceiling. I didn’t have to reach far.

“Not much difference at the top of the house,” I pointed out.

She considered this for a moment, then tilted her head as she looked around.

“Is your room warmer than mine?”

“It’s a little better on my side,” I shrugged. “But not much.”

“Wanna switch?”

I laughed. “What’s in it for me?”

“A colder room?” she raised an eyebrow.

I chuckled. “Yeah, nah.”

“My undying gratitude?”